


president captain america

by livingtheobsessedlife



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Campaign manager Natasha Romanoff, Feelings, I’ve watched way too many political drama shows, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pining, President AU, okay but tony would be thottiest first gentleman I rly wish, presidential candidate au, steve rogers is a dumbass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingtheobsessedlife/pseuds/livingtheobsessedlife
Summary: He’s supposed to be campaigning to be elected as president of the United States, not pining over some billionaire he met at one of his campaign events. And yet, Steve can’t seem to get genius, philanthropist (and his newest bigtime donor) Tony Stark out of his head.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 188





	president captain america

When they meet for the first time, neither has any clue who the other is. Which in and of itself, is actually pretty impressive. 

Steve straightens his suit, smiles winningly. He’s starting to feel like a broken record. 

“Sir,” He says, approaching Tony. He can’t help but notice that the guy looks so effortless in his suit. Steve feels like a monkey in a wedding dress, but this guy? This guy could’ve been born in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, cufflinks tightened around his tiny, baby wrists, and Steve wouldn’t question it, “Thank you so much for coming out tonight to support me. I really appreciate it.”

The guy pauses with a neat little canapé halfway to his mouth, jaw dropped open, and his eyes grow nervously, “Uh, who are you?”

Nowadays, Steve doesn’t get that too often. His charming smile cracks, and the edges turn into something a little more real. 

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

It’s absurd. The guy’s at his campaign rally and he has no idea who he is. Steve’s pretty sure Nat had put a life size cutout of himself at the entrance. Steve gives up, and lets his smile fizzle into something Sam would snipe at: a full grin. Nat always says he looks more like somebody’s baseball-playing brother than a presidential candidate when he grins like this, but he can’t help it. This guy is truly absurd. It’s refreshing. 

Steve shoves a hand into one of his pants pockets. He can hear Bucky’s voice in his head, warning him not to wrinkle the suit, but the pocket-shoving is the natural progression from his so-called baseball grin. He can practically feel himself reverting to his old, non-presidential-candidate self, with the heavy New York accent and the tennis shoes with holes worn through them. He’s reminded, once again, of the simian feeling. 

“I’d say you should probably have a clue as to who I am,” Steve says, and yep, there’s the tinge of Brooklyn in his voice. Nat’s gonna kill him, “Considering this is my campaign event. In honor of me. To raise money for my campaign.”

“Ohh,” The guy says, finally shoving the canapé into his mouth and swallowing the whole thing with one bite, “You’re that guy. Cool.”

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Sounds like he stepped right out of Prospect Park, “What’re you doing here if you don’t know who I am?”

“Pepper likes you,” The guy gestures vaguely with his canapé toward the crowd. Steve sees nothing but formalwear and faux smiles, but the canapé at least seems to have a general line of sight. Steve, even with nothing to go on, finds himself scanning cruelly for the mysterious Pepper.

Still, the canapé-waving and general vastness of the crowd reminds Steve that this is a campaign. Not a blind date. He’s wearing a full suit for Christ’s sake. His proverbial shields go back up, his vague accent slithers back underneath his tongue where he keeps it hidden, and his smile solidifies again, “She does? It’s great to hear that.”

“Yeah,” The guy mumbles, nodding, “Thinks you’re gonna do great things or something. Boost the economy by supporting small businesses blah blah blah. I don’t know.”

Steve immediately starts in on his pre-programmed rant about how his presidency would allow the economy to thrive, but the man in the suit obviously isn’t listening. With his mouth full, he carelessly cuts Steve off, grabbing a glass from a passing tray and waving it in Steve’s direction, “I think it’s all bullshit. She totally just likes you because you look hot in a suit.”

Steve’s impending coughing fit is definitely outside of Campaign Perfection protocol. 

“My team, uh, works hard to make sure I look the best at these things. It’s really not-“

“I gotta say, I agree. Senator Old Fart that’s running against you doesn't have shit compared to your ass in that suit.”

This is completely new ground for Steve- conversation starters regarding his ass in a suit were not included on Nat’s handy note cards. He sputters helplessly. 

“Sir,” Steve says, voice high and fast, “Who _are_ you?”

The stranger takes a graceful sip of champagne, and when he pulls the glass away from his lips he has the most shit-eating grin, “Me? I’m Tony Stark. S’nice to meet you, Rogers.”

On autopilot, Steve shakes his hand. Like a well-trained monkey at the circus. Programmed to shake hands and say nice things about himself. 

“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr Stark. Can I ask, what business are you in?”

Stark’s glass tips, “You don’t know?”

Steve shakes his head, “I’m afraid I’m not that great with names. Sorry,” He’s feeling bold, “But I’m sure I won’t forget you after this.”

Tony grins again, “You’ve never heard of Stark Industries?”

In one terrifying moment, Steve remembers tugging his suit jacket over his shoulders and being rushed out the back door of his hotel only a few hours before. Nat, with a clip board in her hand, briefs him on the most important people to schmooze that night. 

“I fucking hate schmoozing,” Steve had rolled his eyes, ducking his head so he could fit into the SUV. 

Nat had poked him in the side with her pen, “Yeah, well, it pays the bills, Steve.”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky had piped up, his tie wrapped loosely around his neck. Steve is kinda starting to hate Bucky, best friend or no, he’s an ass on the road. He had leaned tauntingly back in his seat. He was gonna get to spend the night drinking and eating food, and not worrying about talking to every single guest. Bucky’s grinning like a prideful teenager on his way to prom, “It’s schmooze or be schmoozed.”

Thankfully, Sam slapped Bucky upside the head as surrogate for Steve, who can’t quite reach him from the angle of his seat. Steve turns with a grateful smile from Sam to Nat. 

“Fine, Nat. Who am I schmoozing tonight?”

Nat reads off a list of names he’s heard before, a couple he hasn’t. She has their large-bill donations memorized in a spreadsheet in her head. She’s like some kind of super computer, strategic and brilliant, and Steve’s never stopped being grateful to have her on his team. She does, however, look much better in a dress than a computer, that’s for sure.

“And we got a new one. Pepper Potts and Tony Stark, from Stark Industries. They used to do weapons development, but there was an incident, and Stark turned his company around. Now they’re in the clean energy business. Very interested in charity, huge pockets. But they don’t usually donate to political campaigns, so we’re lucky to even have them. They’re the most important guests of the night, so make sure you don’t fuck it up with them. I know Pepper personally, and if one of them decides they like you, you’ll be gold for the rest of the campaign, I promise.”

Steve’d only half listened, pre-occupied with twisting unnaturally back to fixing Bucky’s crooked tie, his hands getting swatted by Bucky himself. Sam reached a hand over to stop Bucky from resisting, “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. Don’t fuck up. Big money, very important. Got it.”

Now, hours later, Steve remembers the conversation in vivid detail, “Fuck- wait. Shit. Sorry. I-“

He’s not supposed to curse in front of donors. 

Tony’s cracking up, and then of fucking course Steve spots the beautiful woman in the black dress approaching them. Fan-fucking tastic. 

“Uh, hey, there’s a very scary looking redhead coming this way. I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell her that I just used two different words that she’s allowed to slap me for using in front of donors.”

Stark’s laugh turns into a smile that looks scarily like Steve’s own campaign smile. Huh. Steve proudly notes that his laugh still exists in his eyes. Tony winks at Steve then spins around, spots Nat making a beeline towards them. 

“Natasha!” Stark beams, opening his arms up like Daddy Warbucks on a sugar high, “Long time no see, baby!”

Steve’s never heard anybody call Nat ‘baby’. He’s surprised she doesn’t kick him in the gonads for it. 

Instead, Steve watches as Nat crosses her arms and smiles coyly, leans her shoulder in toward Tony, “Stark. Just as charming as ever.”

Steve can’t help but notice that they make a beautiful pair. Tony, with his natural fit in that suit, looking like he invented the very idea of a formal party. And Nat, in that black dress that gets her hit on more than anybody else in the room. It hugs her curves and dips just low enough to show off her cleavage, and her startlingly red hair is swept to the side in a way that exposes most of her neck. She stuns. Steve’s always wished he could look that good (In a suit. Not a dress. Suit.)

Then Nat’s curving a good natured punch into the billionaire’s shoulder, and Steve’s whole body grows stiff watching from his tense shoulders to his locked knees, he’s like a victim of Medusa, feet cemented together and his joints made of granite as Tony smiles into the gesture. 

“How’s my second favorite redhead doing?” Tony asks, somehow managing to throw an arm around Nat’s shoulders. Steve gapes. Nat’s grin grows.

“Not bad. How’s my second favorite asshole doing?”

Tony frowns playfully, “Second favorite? I’m hurt. Who beat me?”

“You should see the fellas I’m working with these days.”

“Oh yeah? I didn’t get the sense that this guy was one of us. Got the whole innocent, patriotic thing going on. He better at hiding it than me?”

Steve wonders if they forgot that he was standing _right there_. 

Nat’s eyes dart knowingly to Steve, his arms crossed nervously over his chest. She grins, “Stark everybody is better at hiding it than you. But No, he’s not an asshole. Somehow. His best friends on the other hand…”

Steve can’t help but crack a laugh, feel the stones start to break away as his body is chiseled suddenly back into reality, “Nat, I’m totally telling Bucky you called him an asshole.”

“While you’re at it, tell Sam too, why don’t you? Save me the trouble.”

Steve snorts, “Only if you tell me which one of them is your first favorite asshole.”

Nat shakes her head, wrinkles her nose playfully, “ _Never_.”

“Ooh, does Natty have a crush?” Tony butts his way back in. He bumps his shoulder amiably with Nat’s, “Want me to send a dozen roses to their hotel room?”

_Natty?_

Nat rolls her eyes, “I do not have a crush. Not everything is about sex, Stark.”

Steve doesn’t miss the way that Tony’s eyes dart to Steve’s arms when she says the word sex. Steve thinks of the faceless Pepper, of the way that Tony had nonchalantly complimented his ass. He feels his cheeks get hot. 

“I don’t know,” Tony says, seemingly offhand, “I’ve found that it’s usually pretty relevant.”

Nat uncrosses her arms, “Alright boys, that’s enough talk about sex. This is not the place,” She points an accusatory finger at Steve and he’s positive she notices the blush high on his cheek, “You should be mingling!”

“He is mingling,” Tony insists, “With me.”

“You don’t count, Stark,” Nat says through an eye roll, curling one of her tiny hands around Steve’s arm, “Pepper already gave me your money. Now, come on, Steve. We have to schmooze.”

Nat’s already dragging him across the room when Steve manages to wave back at Tony, “Great to meet you, Stark. Hope we can talk again soon!”

Tony waves a handful of appetizers at Steve’s retreating back in response. 

Nat honest-to-god giggles beside Steve as they approach the gathering in the ballroom with the most critical mass. It’s almost a terrifying noise coming from the woman who could probably politically destroy half of the sitting Congress with a single email if she wanted to. She nudges him in his side and hides a smile as they approach another donor, “Somebody’s got a crush.”

Steve’s reaching out to wrap a hand around an old rich guy’s shoulder as he mumbles out of the side of his mouth, “ _Shut up, Nat_ \- Hello, sir. Great to meet you, thanks fo r coming out tonight.”

He doesn’t notice Nat disappear back into the crowd. 

Steve’s shoveling cereal into his mouth in the hotel lounge the next morning, three newspapers splayed out in front of him, when a phone is slid across his table, a miniature paperweight on top of his reading material begging for his attention. 

Steve looks up, mouthful of cereal, to find Nat standing there, arms crossed, hip popped, smug smile. Her hair is pulled back into an impeccable ponytail. Steve knows she’s already been up for hours, like him.

“Can I help you with something, Nat?”

She nods at the phone, “Somebody made a good impression last night.”

Steve looks down and sure enough- “Holy shit. That’s-“

“ _No cursing_.”

“-the maximum donation limit. _Who?_ ”

“Remember Stark?”

Yeah, Steve remembers. He remembers well. The suit, the grin.

“Uh, yeah, think so.”

Nat totally sees through him, but she deigns not to call him out right now. Thankfully. 

“Apparently you made a good impression. He told Pepper to announce his complete support for your campaign.”

“Holy shi-smokes. That’s- wow. I should thank him. Do you think you could-“

“I already scheduled a private lunch with him. The week after next.”

She pulls out the chair across from him, folds one long leg over the other, and she looks at him meaningfully. Steve purposefully stares at the phone. That’s a lot of zeroes. 

“Should I- I don’t even know. Should I thank him? Call him?”

“Oh, you should definitely call him. I already thanked him, but you should call him. Personally. Tell him how very grateful you are.”

Steve slowly looks up at her, eyes narrowed, “Yeah,” He says, shimmying his newspaper out from under her phone. She’s inching into emotional territory that Steve currently doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, “I’ll tell him that.”

Nat looks very self-satisfied as she reaches across and steals a spoonful of his cereal. Steve’s reading the paragraph on last night’s event, the one typed neatly around a picture of Steve shaking hands with a local celebrity, his suit tugging against his biceps in the direction of being too tight of a fit, when Bucky and Sam collapse into chairs at the table next to Steve and Nat. 

“Hey, guys!” Sam says, breathless. His tray of waffles clatters loudly against the table, “What’s up?”

Nat looks Steve right in the eyes, like the asshole she totally is, and says, “Stevie’s got a crush.”

Bucky coughs and accidentally sends Sam’s green apple diving for the floor. It feels like slow motion as two more sets of eyes swivel from the fleeing fruit right back to Steve. Their matching grins are absolutely cruel.

“Oh, does he now?” Sam goades, intentionally fluttering his eyelashes, all faux innocence. 

“Who’s the lucky fella, Stevie?” Bucky coos, “Are they good to you?”

Steve glares at all three of them. 

“I hate all you,” He grumbles, throwing all his papers into a haphazard pile and standing up. He pushes the rest of his cereal at Nat, “I’m gonna go find Maria. She probably has something I can do that isn’t talking to you losers about my irrelevant love life.”

As Steve starts to walk away, Sam barks out a laugh, “You know that implies that you like someone, right? Love life- ha! We’ll figure it out eventually, Rogers!”

Steve doesn’t give them the satisfaction of turning around as he waves them off behind him aw. He works with a bunch of troublemakers. 

It’s truly a miracle that he manages to get himself alone for five minutes to call Tony. Nowadays, it feels like there are campaign assistants (both male and female alike) following him into his bathroom and closet and bedroom, demanding him to sign on dotted lines or re-reminding him of important things that Steve usually remembers anyway. He’s pretty sure Nat had something to do with this unprecedented stroke of privacy. Even in the bathroom of his personal hotel room, he’s not used to absolute privacy in the middle of the morning. He counts himself lucky nonetheless and dials the number. 

Steve glances back up at the lock on the bathroom door, just to reassure himself he’s completely alone. There’s no need to be embarrassed or worried, he really is just thanking the guy, but there are chrysalides in his stomach, shaking like leaves. He boosts himself onto the linoleum counter, ass digging into the edge of the sink as he rests the back of his head against the mirror, watches the lights flicker as the ringing continues. 

He’s starting to feel like a real idiot when finally the dial tone cuts off. 

“Hello?” A familiar voice mumbles, “Tony Stark here. Uh wha’ happened? Whas’sup?”

“Hi, sir, this is Steve Rogers. We met at a campaign function a couple evenings ago.”

Tony’s quick cough is purposefully muffled, and there’s an obvious shuffling on his end, but he returns quickly, “Uh, yes. Steve Rogers. I remember.”

“You seemed to like the canapés,” Steve says, as a vague reminder. Steve himself remembers the conversations and the suits more vividly, but still. The canapés felt like an important part of their exchange. 

Tony snorts, “I did. I liked you too.”

 _Fuck_.

“Thank you. Very much. That’s why I called actually to- thank you. Personally. For your contribution. It was very generous.”

There’s more shuffling on Tony’s side. It sounds like he trips over something, a muffled curse. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says quickly, “It sounds like it’s a bad time. So sorry for bothering you, Mr Stark. I-“

“No, no! Sorry I just- shit,” Steve can’t help but smile, “This is earlier than I usually wake up.”

Steve pulls his phone away from his face to check the time, and he laughs, “Tony, it’s almost noon.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tony breathes out as he collapses onto another surface that Steve can only imagine, “I’ve always been more of a night owl. Mornings aren’t exactly my thing. You can get much more done at night.”

Steve’s responding intake of breath is completely involuntary, “Uh- Yeah. I- _ha._ ”

Tony, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Let me guess, you’re the type who wakes up at the asscrack of dawn and gets all energized and productive without even drinking coffee. I bet you go on a run every morning before the sun’s up and everything.”

Steve’s needless silence is answer enough, smiling like an idiot up at the outdated lighting fixtures of the hotel bathroom. 

“Ha! Got it in one, didn’t I, Rogers?”

“In my defense, I’ve started drinking coffee since I’ve been on the road.”

“Oh, well in that case, he should be exonerated of all offenses, your honor. We have an innocent man here.”

Steve’s staring at his hands crossed in his lap, his legs swinging at the cupboards beneath the sink, “I’m not completely innocent.”

It’s muffled, but Tony definitely chokes on something then. Steve feels his cheeks burn. 

“I mean- the run thing. I, uh, I do that. And my best friend, Bucky, he uh, always tells me I get up five minutes after he finally falls asleep. So...”

Steve can only imagine that smile of Tony’s, the one that climbed it’s way out like a parasite and engrained itself in Steve’s own memory. He’s not entirely sure how this quick phone call got so far away from him.

“I-um, should go. I have to be in Oregon in two hours.”

“Yikes, have fun with _those_ hippies.”

Steve finds himself smiling, “Here, we just call them voters.” 

“Potato, pot-ah-to. Voter, schmoter.”

Steve can’t help but laugh, shoulders shaking against the bathroom mirror, “See you around, Stark.”

“Go make some Oregon-an voters fall in love with you, Rogers.”

Steve snorts, “I don’t think Oregon-an is a real word.”

Tony’s already hung up. 

Steve sits there, cheap LED light bulbs flickering above him, for longer than he would normally take the luxury. Huh. He shakes his head, dismounts heavily from the countertop, and finally unlocks the door. 

He’s half distracted straightening his jacket sleeve when he swings open the door, and suddenly Bucky and Sam are practically falling into the tiny bathroom.

“Uh, hey, Stevie,” Bucky manages as Sam hauls him off the bathroom floor, “What’s up? We were just, uh- checking the structural integrity of your doors. Yeah, that. Your privacy is so important to us.”

Sam stands nervously next to Buck, nodding along like a bobblehead in front of a pedestal fan. 

“I’m gonna let this go,” Steve says slowly, eyes narrowed and darting from one suspicious expression to another, “Because I have no idea what you guys are up to, and I don’t think I want to. We have a presidential campaign to win, and some Oregonians to visit. So I’m just gonna leave and pretend we never had this conversation, ‘kay?”

Steve slowly backs out of the bathroom. 

He’s barely in the hallway when he bodily runs into Nat.

“Hey,” She says, effortlessly breathless and energized, “Have you seen Sam and Bucky?”

“Yeah, they’re in my bathroom.”

Nat, for the first time all day, pauses, “Wait, _together_?”

Steve just nods, and gets out of there as fast as he can. He’s gonna get the bubbly, happy feeling out of his stomach if he has to force it out with a crowbar and half a million handshakes with strangers. And with that, he decides to throw himself into his work.

“Hey, Steve?” Nat asks later, 50,000 miles in the air, her almighty tablet perched within her fingers, tipped amiably in Steve’s direction, “Did you ever give Tony that call?”

Steve can practically hear the lack of subtlety leave Sam and Bucky’s bodies as they physically lean toward Steve and Nat’s row to eavesdrop. Steve rolls a VOTE 4 ROGERS button between his fingers. He determinedly ignores the pair of eavesdroppers two rows back. 

“I called him.”

“And?”

“And what? And nothing. I thanked him. It was fine. The call was fine. Normal.”

Nat’s answering silence makes Steve feels like he itches all over. He tosses the button from one hand to the other and ignores her pointed glare.

He tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, keeping his voice measured and casual when he looks at the leather headrest just to the right of Nat’s head and asks, “Hey, when’d you schedule that lunch again?”

She sees right through it. Of course.

Nat grins wickedly, leaning back effortlessly against her seat, stacks and stacks of poll results and schedules and printed emails from voters sit prettily in her lap.

She answers him succinctly: “Two Thursdays from now.”

But the way she leans and laughs… Steve gets the sense she’s saying a lot more than she’s actually… saying. He both hates and loves that about Nat. He watches her flip between stacks, eyes reading long lines of statistics and recommendations as if she’s unaware of his suspicious gaze. 

After a full minute, he gives up trying to figure out the secret meanings of Natasha Romanoff. He steals one of her many folders and gets to work himself. 

He can still hear Sam and Bucky whispering behind them. 

They’re in Oregon for three days, and by the end of it the so-called Oregon-ans have all but fallen in love with Steve Rogers. 

Nat passes out four identical champagne glasses among their top campaign staff, “We did it, boys,” She says, grinning, “Cheers to President Rogers.”

There’s a raucous, half-tipsy, “ _Here-here_!” in agreement, compounded by the clamorous laughter of people who have spent every waking, sleep-deprived hour of the past three months together. 

As often happens when half your campaign staff has the intelligence of world-changers and the drunken maturity of frat boys, a chant starts, faces turned expectantly in Steve’s direction. Sam and Bucky lead the charge, overly friendly arms wrapped around one another’s shoulders, champagne glasses emptied within a moment’s notice. 

“Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!” The chant starts, probably from Bucky, but it spreads from Sam to the rest of the room in no time. 

Steve thinks he might be the closest one to sober in the whole room. Besides Nat. But even drunk, she’s practically sober. He looks at the scene before him with a laugh. They’re chanting for him. Rallying for him. All these people are here for him, in support for him, working for his cause. When Steve first ran for city council all those years ago to stop discrimination in local government, he never could have thought people would support him in an eventual congressional campaign, let alone a presidential one. And yet- here he stands, a room chanting for him.

“Alright, alright. Calm down,” Steve says with a laugh as he clambers on top of a nearby at-least-somewhat-sturdy-looking table. He tips his full champagne glass in the direction of the crowd, “I’ll give you your speech!”

The chanting gets louder. 

Steve feels his phone buzz in his pocket just as he feels himself about to get into it. He picks it out, tilts the screen so he can read the caller ID, and feels his heartbeat pick up minutely, his face flush. The rehearsed speech drafted in his brain gets cut down to only a few significant sentences. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and smiles at his people.

He does the whole rousing leader thing- conveniently condensed into the time of what is approximately four rings, just enough not to go to voicemail. He ambiguously toasts his full glass into the air, only the tiniest bit of champagne sloshing over the fluted edge, and promptly clambers back down to the ground, fumbling for his phone in the process. 

He can feel Nat’s sober gaze following him as he sneaks out of the main room and into a more private space. There’s significantly less people in the barren hotel hallway. He presses ACCEPT CALL as fast as he can.

“Hey,” Steve says, trying not to sound breathless as he leans against a beige, wallpapered corner, “What can I do for you, Mr Stark?”

“Still with that Mr Stark nonsense?”

“ _Tony_ then.”

“See now, isn’t that better?”

Steve can’t help but grin. He hopes desperately nobody comes out to follow him and demand a better speech. 

“So what’s up?”

“It’s kinda stupid really,” Tony says with a deep breath, and once again Steve can somehow vividly imagine him pacing across maybe an office or a lab somewhere or maybe even his bedroom, “And I hope I’m not out of line or interrupting important future president business of any kind. But I was curious how Oregon went.”

It’s a ridiculous excuse, even bumbling Steve Rogers can tell, and he feels his grin grow. He taps his toe against the equally beige baseboard, points his smile at his feet as he keeps his phone tucked close against his ear.

“Uh, yeah, actually. Went great. Nat thinks we might even have a chance.”

“A chance?” Tony honest-to-god snorts, this good natured, sarcastic humor that wiggles all the way through Steve’s body like a ghost or a gust of wind, takes root in Steve’s toes and sets up shop high in his chest, “Steve, you’re gonna blow this election out of the water. You’re gonna dominate.”

Steve being the inexplicably suddenly-self conscious bastard that he is, feels his cheeks burn. It feels like he hits a beige-colored brick wall, washed over with a startling, cold bucketful of reality. Tony’s voice in his ear- it’s unreal, it’s not the kind of life he lives- surreptitious smiles and clandestine corners weren’t on the careful itinerary Nat has read to him that morning. And he certainly never courted handsome billionaires before his name was in the papers all the time. 

He finds himself thinking _‘What the hell am I doing?_ ’.

He reminds himself about the election. He hears Nat’s voice in his head telling him a million things about professionalism and saving face. Imaginary Nat scrolls through her tablet and reads off polling data to him. As enamored as he may be with Tony Stark, this guy’s still a donor, a supporter, a political entity. He can’t lose sight of that. 

He forces himself to flip the switch and with every ounce of strength in his body trades out the easy ‘baseball-playing, friendly, beer-drinking neighbor’ grin for his bespoke political smile, even just smiling at a wall into a phone. He hates it, but Nat’s voice in his head reminds Steve how important Tony’s support is. 

“Um, thanks, To- Mr Stark,” Steve clears his throat suddenly, “I really do wish my opponent the best. He’s giving me a hell of a fight in this election. Thank you again for your support. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for my campaign.”

Steve clears his throat again. He suddenly feels like an imbecile, but he latches onto Nat’s voice in his head. _For the campaign. For the campaign. It’s all for the good of the campaign. This is the right thing._

Tony is uncharacteristically quiet. Steve imagines him sitting down somewhere, lets out a long breath, and eventually speaks. There’s a switch flicked on his end too, big and heavy and political like a tired, old wolf, a very convincing, charming facade. It feels a hell of a lot like the fourth brick wall that boxes Steve in. 

“Of course, Senator Rogers,” Tony eventually says. He’s never used Steve’s title before. Steve’s called that all the time, but it suddenly sounds wrong, like bald tires on a gravel road, rolling hopelessly in the wrong direction, “Anytime. Good luck.”

Once again, Tony’s the first one to hang up, and Steve feels like an absolute idiot. He tells himself he did the right thing and wanders back toward the sound of young, politically ambitious anthropoid millennials. He puts his phone on silent before shoving his phone back into his pocket. 

When he returns back to the main room, it doesn’t take long before the large group is chanting his name again. He takes his first sip of champagne. Steve tells himself that he’s imagining the way Nat’s eyes follow him, narrowed, as he walks around the room, chatting with his more humble supporters. 

The next morning, Nat’s up bright and early as per usual. She does her typical wake up calls, calls out the detailed agenda for the day multiple times to the gathered crowds of volunteers. She stands outside of Sam’s door and knocks for seven minutes straight without stopping before he finally come out, shirtless, to call her an asshole. She smiles sweetly and tells him that they’re leaving in ten minutes.

Down in the lobby, Bucky accuses Nat of being a witch as he pours his coffee.

“I don’t understand,” He moans, leaning as hard as he can against the spout of the darkest roast coffee, “How aren’t you hungover? You know, there’s a rumor in my family that my great-great-great grandma was a witch. You could be like her. Nat, are you my grandma? Are you a witch?”

She throws a granola bar at him and turns on her heel to find Steve, “Clean yourself up, Bucky,” She calls over her shoulder, “You’re a mess.”

Poor Bucky. He doesn’t even have the energy to flip her off.

Nat finds Steve in his hotel room, impeccably dressed and looking only the tiniest worse for the wear. She knocks at the open door and enters his room just as he’s fixing his tie. Her ever-present tablet is perched tauntingly in the crook of her elbow. 

“Big day today,” She says, striding into his room, “How you feeling?”

Steve just grunts wordlessly.

It’s not the headache that’s getting to him, but he doesn’t know how to explain that without sounding like an immature teenager with an out-of-control crush. Presidential candidates do not sound like they have out-of-control crushes, let alone actually have them, so he fidgets with his tie even though it’s already perfect. 

Imbedded deep in his nerves, Steve maintains the distinct feeling that he made a mistake. 

Nat watches him in the mirror, but doesn’t say anything about the weird look in his eye, the sad bend of his shoulders. She watches him briefly, decides something singly, then quickly dives into a recitation of the detailed itinerary for the day’s traveling.

Presidential candidates do not get breaks. 

By the time she’s done telling him about his day, he feels stronger, more ready. He nods in the mirror, “Alright, Nat,” He says, convinces himself that he at least sounds convincing, “Let’s go then. Let’s do this.”

There’s something about Steve for the rest of the day- Nat, Sam, and Bucky all notice it- that’s just the tiniest bit off. 

He shakes just as many hands as he usually does, smiles at as many babies, does approximately the same number of photo ops. But there’s something off about him the whole time. 

At the end of the day, it’s reflected in the numbers. Just a little, but- it’s there. 

The citizens of Idaho aren’t convinced that Steve’s gonna be their next president. Not like the Oregonians are anyway, not even close. He and his opponent toe the line together. 

“Something happened,” Nat whispers, sliding into the seat opposite Sam and Bucky as they fly from one state to another. Steve’s taking his scheduled power nap on the opposite end of the plane. Nat leans closer toward the other advisors, “Do either of you know what happened?”

Sam and Bucky look to one another then turn back to Nat in sync. Together, they shrug. 

“I have no idea what happened,” Bucky says, waving his pen in tiny airborne circles, “But you’re right. He was off all day today.”

Nat narrows her eyes, “You guys really have no idea what happened?”

Sam sticks up his pinky, “Not a clue.”

“Fine.” Nat concedes, pushing herself out of the seat, but lingering in Bucky’s personal space with leveraged elbows and carefully narrowed eyes, “But if I find out either of you had anything to do with this, you’ll regret it. You hear me?”

She sweeps away before either of them can respond. 

Bucky looks to Sam with a frown, “Why does she always assume we have something to do with it?”

After that day, Nat watches Steve. Carefully. She reminds herself that it’s her job. She’s worried about him. 

No more conspicuous name drops or frequent phone checks. He never sneaks off or is oh-so-characteristically obvious about clandestine intentions. He wakes up in the morning, buys his newspapers, eats sparsely from the continental breakfast buffet, and gets on the road for another day of campaigning. His spark comes back, the number of volunteers for the campaign somehow doubles, but she also notices Steve working for even longer hours than before. He throws himself into the campaign like never before. 

It’s 2am after another long day, and Nat has conceded that her empty stomach is going to have to be okay with an overpriced water bottle from the hotel mini fridge and a bag of nuts she had stashed in her purse after the last commercial flight she had taken. Nothing in this butthole-of-nowhere town is open at this hour, so it’ll just have to do. She collapses onto her bed, peanuts in one hand and the tv remote in the other, and she turns on the news before feeling herself drift toward sleep. 

Then there’s a knock at her door. 

Nat curses out loud, _loudly_. These young volunteers really need to learn not to bother her after she’s gone to bed. She doesn’t need a whole lot of personal space, she’s adaptable, but fuck if some boundaries would be nice every once in awhile with these kids. Begrudgingly, she leaves her quote-unquote dinner on the bedside table and stalks across the room barefoot to answer the door, totally prepared to rip a new one into an overly-enthusiastic twenty-something. 

She’s surprised to find Steve standing there, still in his wrinkled suit from the long day, tie undone around his neck, hair a mangled mess. There’s a small dent in the top right of the large ROGERS 4 PREZ button pinned to his jacket. She notices the purpling bags under his eyes for what isn’t the first time. 

“Hey, Nat,” He says quickly, and barges right on into her room, “I’ve got an idea for tomorrow.”

She closes the door behind him, and follows Steve farther into the room with a sigh. He doesn’t seem to notice her bare feet or the loose sweatpants she wears with the braless black cami. He’s already started pacing, tossing a silver pen between his hands. 

Nat rubs her face and crosses her arms, leans against the corner that opens out from the cramped hallway into her equally cramped hotel room as Steve uses the minimal space to pace back and forth. She sighs, exhausted, “What’s up, Steve?”

He tells her his idea. 

He has a couple more stops he wants to add to the already jam-packed schedule for the next day. He crunched the numbers himself, did the research himself, and he’s audibly excited at the prospect of working himself into the ground. 

Nat, exhausted and simply wanting to go to bed, sees right through Steve’s bullshit. But it’s her job to keep him happy and ready to serve the American people, so she just nods and pulls her arms tighter around her chest.

“Sounds great, Steve,” Nat says, clamping down on an irritated yawn, “I’ll make sure everybody’s informed of the changes in the morning. Is there anything else?”

Steve continues his short pacing circuit a couple more times, unable to think of anything else, and eventually shakes his head. 

“Great,” Nat says, her usual cool slipping away just minutely and her voice comes out harsher than normal, “Good night.”

She effortlessly guides Steve out of her hotel room and into the empty hall. She shuts the door behind him, and he’s left standing in front of her room, an insomniac in the night. He works for a couple more hours until he crashes, still dressed on top of his fully made bed and surrounded by a flat, brisé fan of paperwork unfurled over his beige comforter.

That night, Steve gets an hour of rest, and Nat realizes then and there that it’s her job to get him out of this funk of his before he works himself dead. Fuckin’ Steve Rogers. Sleep is hard enough to come by as is, now she’s gotta knock the insomnia out of him.

The next day, the schedules are updated, and Nat doesn’t say a word to Steve about it. Nobody is able to tell in the slightest that she got half the amount of sleep she normally does. 

After that, Nat throws around a couple reasons, like some kind of psychological experiment in which her job is on the line. She tries passively bringing up things that could be affecting Steve’s mood. 

She carefully asks after his family, about any out-of-the-ordinary voter experiences, his categorically pristine health. She asks if Bucky fucked something up, or if somebody in the news said something that got him particularly riled up. 

Each time, he laughs it off. 

Except when she mentions Tony. Which, yeah, he still laughs it off, sure. But Nat knows Steve well enough, and Bucky knows Steve even better. It’s not his Nat-socks-Bucky-in-the-eye-with-a-bag-of-peanuts laugh that they’re so well acquainted with. It’s the laugh that they trained into him, scientifically perfected the pitch-to-smile-widening ratio for maximum donor affect. 

When Nat is briefing the leading campaign advisors about the itinerary for the upcoming week, she reminds Steve about his lunch with Tony Stark, and Nat and Bucky both watch the way Steve momentarily tenses then overcompensates in trying to appear normal. It gives more insight into Steve’s mood than anything else has in the past week. 

So she tries it again, a couple times. She brings up Tony’s name in various conversations, all within different contexts. Each time, she shares a look with Bucky as Steve visibly tenses. Bingo. Nat’s starting to understand. 

And so the week goes, as busy as ever. 

Nat and Sam and Bucky and Steve fly across the country. Steve shakes hands, crowds chant his name. He rotates viciously through three near-identical blue striped ties, just as he’s done throughout the whole campaign. Voting day feels like it’s rounding the corner on its third lap around the track, coming up on them from behind. During the short time allotted for breakfast every day, the three close advisors quiz Steve on topics for the upcoming debates instead of letting the candidate read his newspaper. They drive Steve to campaign events and photo ops and homeless shelters where he smiles and shakes hands and has meaningful conversations off-camera. 

All the major newspapers have SENATOR ROGERS’ name in big letters on the front page, almost every day of the week. The polls are climbing. And Steve’s smile still falters. Not often, but often enough that Sam will elbow Bucky in the side and nod in the direction of the podium once or twice a day, and Nat and Bucky will share a look as Steve furrows his brow while he practices his speech at them over breakfast. 

“Alright, alright,” Steve mumbles distractedly on Thursday morning, furiously crossing out a line of his speech that had sounded wrong coming out of his mouth. He glances up at Bucky and Sam, “You guys should go get ready soon, we gotta leave in less than half an hour.”

Bucky and Sam bicker the whole way out of the hotel lobby, throwing out the remains of Sam’s apple as they pass a trash can and refilling Bucky’s styrofoam cup as they pass the coffee station. Nat stays completely still, one leg crossed over the other, tablet perched primly in her lap, and the two of them watch in silence as the shiny elevator doors close on the bickering mostly-professionals. 

Almost as soon as they’re out of sight, Nat adjusts in her seat and reads off Steve’s personal schedule. Today’s gonna be a little different. 

“After your meeting with the New York Women’s Association, you have your Stark Industries lunch,” Nat says, sounding so ever nonchalant, but waiting with a baited grin as Steve drops his pen at the familiar name. 

They watch as the pen tumbles all the way to the ground. Steve has to stoop awkwardly to reach it, his chin on the table and his fingers stretching out as far as they can. 

With the pen victoriously in hand, Steve eventually clears his throat. He tries so hard to sound as offhand and casual as possible, Nat almost feels bad for him. 

“And uh, what time is that?”

Nat pinches down on her smile, “That’s at 1 o’ clock.”

Steve hums in confirmation. 

She reads off the rest of the schedule, but Nat knows he’s not listening, too distracted. She might even say he’s lovesick. Goddamn. This stupid motherfucker is going to be the next president of the United States is America. 

When she finishes reading off the detailed schedule, Nat pointedly clears her throat, “And that’s all for today. We’ll end the night at a hotel in Jersey. Got all that?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Sounds great. Thanks, Nat.”

Sometime between the appearance at the pancake breakfast at 9am and the speech to the New York Women’s Association at 12:30, Nat disappears. Which is entirely unusual. Natasha Romanoff does not merely _disappear_ midday. 

He asks a couple volunteers that he knows she has a rapport with, tries to see past the knowing grin that Bucky gives him, and eventually is led back to the hotel. 

At 12:58 p.m, Steve knocks anxiously at her hotel room door. 

When she opens the door, she’s in her pajamas, the familiar, slouchy, grey sweatpants. Steve is already inexcusably sweaty. He wipes at his forehead. 

“Uh, hey, Nat. What’s up? You disappeared. We have the, uh, Stark Industries lunch at any minute. You ready?”

Nat looks down at her pajamas, up at Steve, back down to her clothes, and back up at him, “About that,” She says, slowly and intentionally, “I’m feeling a bit under the weather. I think you’ll just have to go alone.”

“Alone?” Steve repeats. If Nat hadn’t been familiar with his courageous military record, she would almost say he sounded scared, “No, no. We can just reschedule. You have the rapport with them. I shouldn’t go without you.”

Nat shakes her head, “Go without me,” She insists, and Steve feels like he’s being backed into a corner with sticky mortar and porcelain bricks, “It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t-“

“Just remember their names, and be yourself. You’ll be fine, Steve. Tell Pepper I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, and please tell Tony to go fuck himself for me. Man up, Rogers.”

And with that, she closed the door on his face. 

In the past, Steve had boldly and happily faced rallies that filled stadiums full of supporters wearing buttons with his name written in big blue letters, and every last one of the filled seats included a proud supporter screaming his name. He’d dealt with all of Congress as if battling a militant infant, strong and brave and loud. Hell, Steve’s gone into multiple literal war zones. But this? This feels worse, somehow. Marching to an unknown doom. He feels like an oversized pair of flip flops are sinking into the metaphorical quicksand in his stomach. 

The address Nat texts him turns out to be one of those pricey, swanky New York brunch joints that are only open until 2 in the afternoon. It’s all clean, white surfaces and ninety degree angles. Steve’s never been here before, never even heard of it. He takes a shallow breath as he reaches for the long, silver door handle and enters the restaurant.

There’s a disconcertingly strong scent of tiquewood potpourri embedded beneath the vague scent of food. The apathetic host wears an equally subdued grey tie, contrasted only by the small, pride flag pin stuck to his breast pocket. His name tag reads ‘DYLAN :)’. He doesn’t seem all that impressed to see Steve. 

Steve gives him a winning smile anyway. 

“Hi,” Steve says, channeling his carefully perfected presidentially apt character. He leans an elbow against the host’s cramped podium, “I have a reservation at 1 under the name Steve Rogers.”

There’s that tell-tale flash of recognition in the young waiter’s expression, but he looks just as bored as before as he clicks at the touch screen behind the host stand. He grasps a pile of open faced leather bound menus and steps away from the podium. 

“You’re the first of your party to arrive. Please follow me.”

Dylan turns on his heel and effortlessly leads Steve through a complex, bustling minefield of tables to a secluded booth in the back. Steve has to rotate his body carefully to fit between the skinny space between tables, but he manages to miraculously keep up with Dylan. Steve almost considers cracking a joke, mentioning Theseus and the Minotaur and this weird labyrinth of furniture, but instead he just smiles at the young waiter, and sits down quickly. 

His hands fidget with the heavy menu. He tells himself that the soupy feeling filling his stomach is just hunger. He hadn’t been allowed to eat any of the food at the pancake breakfast after all, and it had smelled so incredible. It’s just hunger. Seriously. His knee bounces up and down too. 

Steve reads the menu twice without actually reading the words, and a third time for good measure. By the fourth go-around he commits to reading the posh descriptions of avocado toast and various fruit-flavored smoothie bowls. He’s on his fifth readthrough, slowly deciding on a plain plate of scrambled eggs and a fruit cup, when Tony arrives. 

He’s late, of course. And alone. But mostly late, arriving with dark tinted sunglasses and a nicely tailored blazer over a closely striped tee shirt. He looks tanner than Steve remembers, and completely at ease stepping off the hot New York sidewalk into the fiercely air conditioned restaurant. Steve watches as Tony’s gaze seemingly carelessly sweeps the room. 

The flip flops in Steve’s stomach start stomping. 

Steve stands to greet Tony, who is lead back to Steve’s secluded booth by the infamous Dylan. Tony somehow has the historically apathetic host smiling with a blush high on his cheek. 

“Here’s your table, Mr Stark,” Dylan says, looking giddy and nervous, “Have a great meal.”

Tony sits down opposite Steve without acknowledging either Dylan’s idolatry or Steve’s manners. Steve hurries to sit down too, and the tight, tufted leather makes an awkward creaking sound as he shuffles against it. Tony effortlessly sucks at the ice water on his side of the table. 

Steve’s waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop. 

“Where’s Nat?” Tony asks, sucking on his straw and leaning back against his chair. 

Steve has his straw wrapper curled up into a tiny little ball that he rolls continuously between his thumb and his forefinger. He avoids Tony’s eyes at all cost, “She wasn’t feeling too great, asked me to go without her. I hope you don't mind.”

“What a funny coincidence.”

“What?”

“Pepper was feeling under the weather today too. She sent me on without her.”

“Huh, yeah. Funny coincidence.”

“Maybe. _Or-_ “ Tony leans forward with a lopsided grin, turns his straw in random figure eights in the ice water, “Or maybe they’re trying set us up.”

Steve’s about to shut that train of thought down completely with a bunch of blinking red lights and a long, checkered gate, patently insist that Nat would never manipulate Steve like that, not at a time as important to the campaign as this. But then he remembers that Nat would _totally_ do that. 

He ends up just saying, “Huh.”

Tony snorts, “Gotta love those wily redheads,” He says, a sarcastic light in his eye that reminds Steve of cheap pocketfuls of canapés and nice, little, beige corners. 

Steve finds himself smiling, “Y’know, now that I think about it, Nat said to tell you something. She said to tell  
Pepper she’s sorry she couldn’t make it. And to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Tony laughs so hard he has to unravel his cloth napkin to cough into it. Steve watches Tony wipe his eyes with the corner of the black cloth, and finds himself unable to stop smiling. He missed this. 

By the time the waiter comes over to take their drink order, Steve can’t seem to stop smiling. It’s ridiculous. 

The rest of the lunch goes unnecessarily well. Tony goads Steve into trying something a little out of his comfort zone, and Tony himself orders a decadent plate of avocado toast. Tony makes Steve almost feel at home among the sharp angles and cramped corners. Tony has a way of making even shiny, white vinyl surroundings seem like the buffet table at a small town rally. 

When the check comes, they both reach for it. 

“You know I’m a billionaire, right?”

“Yeah, and you know that you already donated a substantial amount of money to my campaign? I can’t let you do this.”

“Stop being such a perfect little white knight,” Tony accuses, harmless, “I’m paying.”

Steve doesn’t end up having much choice in the matter. He thanks Tony as many times as can fit in the walk from their table through the tight maze of furniture in the direction of the host’s stand. 

Tony gets this funny little look on his face, his head cocked, his nose wrinkled, and his grin lopsided and- real. He waves vaguely in Dylan’s direction, then leans against the door with his shoulder and swings out onto the New York street without looking away from Steve with that meaningful face of his. 

“Thank you,” Steve says, another time. A nervous habit, he adjusts his tie, “You really didn’t have to pay for it.”

Tony shrugs magnanimously, “It wasn’t exactly your kind of restaurant anyway.”

Steve tenses automatically, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, if you had your choice, you’d be getting lunch from that $2 hot dog stand over there and mingle among the natives and the tourists alike while you all got food poisoning together.”

Steve hates to admit it, but he’s probably right. 

Tony continues with that grin, “You deserve something a little fancier every once in awhile, Senator.”

Steve feels his face burn with subtext. 

They’re shielded against the crowd by a 2 foot recess between the busy sidewalk and the cool, silver plated side of the building. 

“Alright, I gotta ask,” Tony says, elbow bent against the building, “What happened?”

Steve tries to play dumb, but it doesn’t really work. He considers fleeing, but they’re standing outside waiting for _Steve’s_ car, so it wouldn’t really work anyway. 

“I, uh- look. This campaign,” He waves meaningfully at the tiny American flag pinned to his lapel and then to the bustling world of people moving around them, “It kinda takes precedence over everything else right now. And you’re a really important person, not just because you have money, but because your name means something in this world. Your influence is amazing. The things you can do with just a word-“ Steve pauses. He’s rambling, he knows. He’s breathless, “Your support means a lot to me. I don’t want to mess that up by- by being me.”

Tony’s face contorts like iron under a hot flame, but before he can say anything, Steve spots his usual town car pulling up to the curb and he rushes for it. His chance to flee. He doesn’t wait to find out what’s on the other side of that half-cocked expression. 

“Gotta go, Mr Stark,” Steve says quickly, pulling the door shut hard behind him. He still feels breathless as he calls at his driver to go. He doesn’t turn back to look at Tony, he can’t. 

In the car, Steve has to take big, gulping breaths. 

When he gets to his next event, Nat’s fully dressed and doesn’t look sick at all. 

The rest of the day is like going through the motions, a well-oiled machine with a vague cog deep in its winding turns, a piece of gum, peppermint-flavored and sticky, adhered to a single tooth of a large gear. It feels like that phone call is being played over and over again the voice mail to his thoughts, heart thumping. By the end of the day, when Nat tells Steve to go to sleep, that she’s got it from here, no more hands to shake, he doesn’t argue as he makes his way to the elevators. 

He’s pulling his sweat pants on over his hips, has all but collapsed onto his bed, when there’s a knock at his door. Steve doesn’t even have the mental capacity to wonder who it is, just shuffles zombie-like toward the door. 

“ _Tony?_ ”

“Hey.”

Steve feels distinctly like a proverbial bucket of ice (ice machines conveniently provided by the hotel not far down the hallway from his room) was just dumped over his head, “How did you find me?”

Tony must’ve had to travel all the way to Shitsville, Jersey to find him. Steve can’t imagine the trouble that would’ve been. 

“Doesn’t matter. Can we talk, Steve?”

 _Fuck._ There he goes, calling him by his first name again. For something he’s been going by his entire life, Steve feels like he doesn’t hear a whole lot of people call him Steve nowadays. It sounds precious and fragile coming off of Tony’s tongue, like a priceless piece of sterling silver jewelry. Steve feels his heart rise to his throat, and he starts to panic. 

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Tony.”

Steve tries to shut the door, fast and quick, like a drawbridge shutting on the high tide of emotions rising fast through his body. Tony reaches out an arm and stops it. 

“Please? Steve, I want to talk about this. I thought we- I thought we had something. Talking to you, it's not like how it is with most people. You make me laugh and smile for real. And you’re incredible, and I want to talk about this. Please.”

Steve feels the unclampable urge to lean forward and kiss Tony Stark on the lips surge through him. 

It’d be so easy. When he threw his arm out to stop the door from closing all the way, Tony’s whole body had swung closer toward Steve’s with the momentum of it. Steve’d simply have to tip forward just so and- their lips meet. 

Steve barely even notices at first. Tony’s hand falls away, goes weak against the door and finds its way to Steve’s waist. There’s a bare slit of skin between the elastic of Steve’s ratty sweats and the tee shirt he sleeps in at night, and Tony’s thumb rubs slow circles against the sparse expanse of skin. 

Steve feels all the stress and the worries of the past months, hell the past years, disappear like shadows under a foggy moon. When Tony touches him it feels like- it feels like nothing else he’s ever felt before. Like electricity. Like clouds. Like heaven and hell. Steve feels his whole body go soft and bend in toward Tony against his will. 

And then- reality returns. 

He’s Steve Rogers. A mere step away from the highest public office in the free world. 

If one of the reporters from the press corps were to traipse out of their room at that moment in search of ice chips or a late night vending machine snack, Steve would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. 

He pulls away like he’s startling awake. 

Tony’s eyes are closed blissfully, and he takes his time opening them. Steve’s a perfect picture of anxiety and fear. The soft edges that Tony had coaxed out roughen themselves back into the rigid outline of concentric rectangles that have been squared off as of late by the rigors of the campaign trail. 

“ _Steve-_ “ Tony says, and he sounds as breathless as Steve feels. 

Steve isn’t thinking. He takes one looks at the soft, inviting nature of Tony’s pout, and he directly shuts the door in his face. Tony isn’t able to stop the door this time.

The next morning, Steve’s late to his daily breakfast with Nat and the other advisors. 

They notice. Of course they notice. Steve’s been late for a lot of things lately while they’ve been on the road. Things get pushed back, more supporters show up than expected, reporters ask questions even when they’re told the last one has already been asked. And the traffic that Steve’s growing motorcade causes is a time killer of its own devices. But Steve’s morning routine? It’s sacred. Hell, Steve’s almost got it timed down to the minute. He just isn’t late to it, ever. 

And this morning, he’s almost twenty minutes behind. Impeccably dressed, sure, but there’s that flicker again, that hesitancy. He looks tired. Nat makes a mental note to force some of her makeup bag on him, maybe try smearing some concealer on the dark bags under his eyes. All three of Steve’s closest advisors watch as he reaches for a yellowing pear and a cardboard cup full of orange juice. 

“Hey, guys,” Steve says, as close to mumbling as a guy who speaks day-in-day-out in emblazoned speeches can get (he spoke like that before the campaign too, though the random feeling of wanting to follow the guy into a fiery abyss is more obvious nowadays, more direct and also more than a tad intentional), “Sorry I’m late. Off morning, I guess.”

Steve can feel them watching him as he downs the juice in two neat gulps. 

He’s definitely acting weird. Fidgety, forced. But then again, that’s been going around lately. It’s unanimous and wordless; they’ll deal with Steve’s weirdness later. For now, they have a campaign to run. 

As one, Nat, Sam, and Bucky relax into their regular selves. 

Nat explains the itinerary. Strict, fast, precise. Steve nods along, taking a big bite of fruit as she hits noon in his upcoming day. The pear’s nearly gone by the time she tells him what time he’ll be going to bed tonight. Surprise, surprise: another long day. 

Bucky crashes through the finale of Nat’s serious monologue with a barely-funny joke that makes Steve crack a grateful smile. Sam elbows Bucky meaningfully in the ribs, but he’s smiling too. 

“So, Rogers” Nat says, a sly, patently Romanoff smile pulling at the corners of her lips, “You gonna tell us why Stark made a visit to the hotel last night?”

She hadn’t known when she started the well-meaning sentence, but by the end of it, Nat knows it’s the wrong thing to say. 

Every ounce of light heartedness that the comfort and warmth of the routine had pulled out of Steve is immediately snatched away like a goblin’s grubby gold. Steve immediately locks up. 

“What?” 

He’s so tense sitting there that Nat imagines she could crack a quarter in half by bouncing it off one of Steve’s broad shoulders. Bucky and Sam look frantically from Nat to Steve, one after the other and back again.

“I met him in the lobby last night as he was leaving. I figured he came to talk to you.”

“He, uh-“ Steve stands up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. Nat is able to physically see him searching for his escape around the cramped lobby. He turns in the direction of the elevator, “We just talked. About the campaign. It was- it was nothing.”

By the time Steve slips into the UP elevator, Nat, Sam, and Bucky are still sitting at their usual table staring in awe after the senator. Did they just witness a mental breakdown? Is that what one of those looks like? That’s what it felt like. 

Sam and Bucky turn to stare at Nat, incredulous. 

“What the hell was that, Natty?” Bucky demands. 

He’s been friends with Steve a long, long time. He’s probably known the guy longer than any other living human. He’s never seen Steve act like that. Nat, to her credit, is just as shocked as Bucky. 

All Nat says in reply is stare openmouthed at the set of closed, blinking elevator doors, and curses, “ _Shit_.” She murmurs, “This is gonna suck.”

She trails her way to the elevators after him. 

When Nat finds Steve, he’s pacing outside of the row of hotel rooms the campaign has rented for upper staffing. He’s practicing his stump speech at the ceiling. 

“We gotta talk about this, Steve.”

“ _And so I promise that as President_ -“

“Whatever’s going on, it’s affecting the campaign.”

“ _I will do everything in my power to make this the country that you will be proud to raise your children in and_ -“

“C’mon, man. This is serious.”

“ _I will do everything in my power to_ -“ He stops abruptly, turns to face Nat with furrowed brows. “You don’t think I know that it’s affecting the campaign? You think I haven’t noticed? I saw the polling from Idaho. They all think I’m a moody asshole because I was on the phone the night before with a guy and I don’t know how to keep my feelings in check. You think I don’t know this is a disaster? I’m trying to be the president of the United States of America and I can’t get over a crush like some sort of- hormonal teenager. Trust me, Nat. I know.”

She blinks. 

There’s this prolonged moment of silence, Steve’s fists curl and uncurl tightly, and Nat stands perfectly still watching him. Steve expects sympathy, encouragement, maybe an ‘ _oh okay, I didn’t realize how well you understood the situation. Carry on then’_. Instead, Nat shakes her head. 

“Steve Rogers, you’re an idiot.”

In the long timeline that the two of them have worked together, Nat has said an entire encyclopedia of words and speeches to him backwards and forwards. She’s cursed at him like a trucker on steroids and carefully nursed his ego as if it was her very own newborn baby. She’s never said that. 

“What?”

“You’re allowed to have feelings, dumbass.”

“But I-“ He takes a deep breath. In that moment, Steve couldn’t have recited his stump speech even if he had the words printed on a huge, glowing teleprompter six feet away from him, “I have these feelings and it’s great, but then I think about what you would say. Or Bucky or Sam. How if I act on anything that I feel, it’s jeopardizing the campaign. And so many people have thrown themselves into this for me, Nat. So many people have devoted the past 18 months of their life to me. I can’t let them down just because I have a crush. And- and I always think what you would say. How he’s a donor. How- I can’t. And Nat, I can’t. I can’t have feelings like this, not now. We’re so close.”

“But you do Steve. Pretending you don’t is making it a bigger problem than it has to be. And you know what? I’ve worked with you longer than almost anybody else, and you know what I want? I want you to be happy! Because that’s when you work best. When you’re happy, Steve, you kick ass. You get shit done. And that’s not even mentioning that I want you to be happy because I’m your actual friend. C’mon, Steve. What me, Sam, and Bucky really want is whatever’s best for you. I don’t want to hear any of this bullshit about using what you think I’d tell you to be some coward about telling Tony how you feel. Be honest with yourself, for Christ’s sake. Be happy.”

Now Steve blinks. 

“Really?”

“Yes!”

Steve thinks back, rewinds the voice in his head every time. It sounds different now. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And don’t you ever again use me as an excuse not to have feelings or whatever, Steve.”

Steve rubs at his neck, “Okay, Nat.”

She starts to back away, nods with finality, “You ready to get going?”

“Yeah, I just gotta grab something from my room,” Steve nods, and Nat takes long strides down the hallway, turns to leave, “Wait, hey, Nat?”

She turns to face him.

“Thanks again.”

Nat smiles, “Anytime, Rogers. Hurry up, we’re running late.”

Steve’s noticeably better after that. He kills in Jersey, Nat inches in an extra ten minutes for his nap, and his general attitude is miles better now that he’s realized he’s not a bad politician just because he has feelings. 

When he’s asleep, Nat does have a talk with the lead publicist though, talks damage control, the possible effects that would occur if Steve came out to America as dating one of the most controversial figures in science and technology during the most important, long-drawn-out job interview of his life. While the public has known that Steve is gay since his very first run for Congress way back when, a gay man winning the presidency is unprecedented. A single gay man dating a billionaire is something of another caliber altogether. They crunch some numbers together, whisper in hushed voices back and forth, discuss some key states and some shifting schedules, but decide that they could still win if Steve decides to do something about his recently embraced feelings. 

The publicist tells Nat that she’s personally happy that the person she intends to vote into office found somebody that makes him happy. Nat nods and smiles, a wordless, wholehearted agreement.

When Steve wakes up, Nat tells him the updated schedule for the next week, and he doesn’t question it, just smiles, thanks her, and makes his way back to the press cabin to see if anybody has any questions he can answer before they land. 

Despite embracing said feelings, Steve doesn’t get in contact with Tony about them. 

“Call him.” Nat basically commands late one night, standing in his doorway. It had been another long day. A better reception in North Carolina than they had even hoped for. Steve had wanted to stay up at the lobby bar with Sam and Bucky, but Nat insisted on walking him up to his hotel room. He needed sleep. 

She doesn’t need to use a name for Steve to know who she's talking about. He shakes his head. 

“I don’t think so, Nat. This isn’t the kinda thing I want to do over the phone. I hurt him, I was rude, and now I’ve almost completely flipped on what I said to him before. I need to do it in person.”

Nat rolls her eyes, “Whatever. Good night, Steve. Get some rest.”

It takes a lot of combined effort from both Nat and Pepper to eventually get Steve and Tony to be in the same place at the same time. There’s quite a bit of so-called executive assistant jiu-jitsu on both sides, but eventually Nat pushes Steve into an empty private room in a small New York restaurant, and a few minutes later Pepper does the same. 

Steve’s in the middle of drafting an email on his phone when he looks up and nearly drops the thing, “Tony?” He breathes out. 

“Steve?” Tony echoes. He sounds just as breathless as Steve feels. Tony looks around the room and cracks a smile, “I think they did it again.”

Steve’s standing, doesn’t really remember telling his legs to move, but oh well. He’s standing there, in front of Tony Stark. No more voices in his head, just clear, terrifying, soul-devouring _feelings_. 

“Tony.” Steve repeats, because it’s all he can get out really. It’s the only word on his mind. Tony seems to know that, gets that dastardly little grin of his.

“You said that already.”

Instead of a response, Steve just… exhales. It’s super lame, but his mind’s gone numb. He’s supposed to be this brilliant leader, but here he is rendered speechless by a single look. He tells himself to get over it. Then reminds himself he doesn’t have to. 

“I- I have some things to say. And I know you probably don’t want to hear them because the last time I had things to say they weren’t what you wanted to hear. I shouldn’t have said any of that stuff, Tony. I’m sorry.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, “I’m listening.”

Steve grins, that old Brooklyn thing that he keeps in the back drawers of himself like a secret little thing. On impulse, he grabs Tony’s hand and tugs him to a nearby table. 

Nat and Pepper had arranged for the two of them to have half an hour alone together, to talk. For Steve to get his head out of his own ass and for Tony to let him.

28 minutes and a nice coffee lunch later, Nat and Pepper return to the private dining room. When they open the door, they find Steve and Tony sitting on the farthest end of the long banquet-style table, talking quietly to one another. 

Nat gets the urge to tell Steve to fix his smile the way he’s looking at Tony, but then again, nobody’s watching right now. She can let it slide. She’s glad to. 

When Nat and Pepper finally make their presence known to the lovebirds in the corner, they don’t untangle their hands on top of the short table. 

Tony smiles up at the redheads, innocent in every way of the word except the actual definition, a twinkle in his eye, “Oh lookie. It’s our two favorite matchmakers, huh?”

Steve snorts in laughter. 

He looks happier than Nat’s ever seen him. 

She can work with this. 

They’re in Vermont when the tabloids pick up on Steve and Tony’s relationship. He’d asked Tony if he wanted to join him for a dinner honoring kids from all over New England who were exemplary in STEM fields. The kids were even more excited to hear Tony talk (who came as a surprise to both the young’uns and their starstruck parents) than they had been at the prospect of dining with Steve. 

At the last second, Steve reaches for Tony’s hand in the dingy hallway outside the small faux brass-crested dining hall. 

“You’re sure?” Tony asks, holding Steve back from leaving the midsize venue. 

Steve nods without question, squeezes Tony’s hand, “I am.”

The next day, Steve and Tony holding hands on a snowy Vermont sidewalk makes front page news. If you look beyond the joined hands and smiling faces that the camera focuses on, Sam and Bucky visibly trail behind the happy couple, and they too share a meaningful smile. 

Tony frames the article in his office. Later, Steve does the same in his- in the Oval Office, that is.

/// THREE MONTHS LATER ///

Tony asked Nat once, when she first told him on a transatlantic cell call about her new job, how much the new gig paid. At the time she lied, not wanting to throw half a dozen, quality logs-worth of kindling onto the hot press-worthy fire that was this new career change. She rounded the number up a few tens of thousands of dollars, and though he whistled appreciatively at the number, the exploit largely worked and the billionaire dropped it thereafter. It’s not until budging on six months later that she confesses to her fib. 

They’re standing backstage at Steve’s inauguration, just outside of the line of sight of the cameras, but close enough that they can hear the crowd roar, can feel the chill of the February winter outside, and if they focus well enough, can just spot the shiny new pinky ring Tony had given Steve in honor of his long-coming win. 

Tomorrow, Nat will be the chief of staff to the president of the United States, and Tony will have an all-access pass to the White House if he wants. The new improvements to their reputations are the last things on their minds: the small backstage recess is filled with an air of nothing but pride and love. 

“Hey, Tony?” Nat says, as they watch Steve place his hand on an ancient leather bible, “Remember when I called you and told you about this job?”

God, this job. She’s worked on the campaigns for politicians and entrepreneurs all over the globe, all across America. Natasha Romanoff has destroyed entire reputations with a nod of her head and built others from absolutely nothing like a power hungry god. But working for Steve Rogers was different. Never before had she so completely believed in somebody. Never had she even wanted to believe in somebody. Today, she’s proud of him. Usually, she’s just proud of herself. But this time, she’s proud of Steve Rogers more than anything else. 

She sneaks a peak at Tony out of the corner of her eye. 

Tony can’t tear his eyes off of Steve, like the rest of the world but even luckier. He nods his head, “Yeah, I remember.”

“I knew you’d like him. That’s why I called you up. I knew you’d hit it off.”

He chances a glance at her, and a grin sprouts involuntarily, “Oh, shut up.”

Together, they watch Steve Rogers, a good man, a boy from Brooklyn, inaugurated into the office of the President of the United States.

It’s Steve’s first official day in the office: round, white, terrifying, overlooking this beastly enormous, green grass lawn. It’s hard to believe he’ll be coming here every day, talking to world leaders, American heroes, and trusted friends in the very room where great feats of history have transpired time and time again. He made it. 

“You should get some sleep soon,” Nat says, skirting the passage between the president’s and the chief-of-staff’s office. 

“I will,” Steve promises, despite the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He’s here, really here. It feels incredible, “Night, Nat.”

“G’night, Mr President,” She doesn’t seem convinced, but Nat carefully pulls the door between their offices shut, leaving Steve alone in the oval for the first time since the beginning of a very long first day on the job.

He turns and looks out the grand southern-facing palette of windows, takes in the grandeur of it all, when his new secretary knocks softly at the door.

“May Mr Stark enter? He doesn’t have an appointment, but…”

Steve turns around to smile at her, leans against his new desk, “Let him in. Thanks, Sharon.”

Sharon had been part of his campaign, a young volunteer and recent poli-sci grad from a fancy-schmancy private university that Steve could barely pronounce. She’d been one of the first to throw her support behind his candidacy, way back in the earliest stages of his campaign, and Steve’s been looking forward to working with her more in this new stage. 

She opens the door farther and Tony struts on in. 

The door shut discreetly behind him. Tony whistles, “Nice place, Stevie. Not bad at all,” He pokes at a precious artifact, something leftover from JFK’s days in office, and he turns to grin at Steve, “I might’ve made a couple different interior design decisions myself, but you’ve done pretty well for yourself if I may say so.”

Steve rolls his eyes, beckons Tony to his side of the desk with an outstretched arm, “C’mere, weirdo.”

Tony effortlessly fits into Steve’s embrace, his back pressed against Steve’s chest. Together, they look out onto the south lawn. 

“You did it, babe,” Tony murmurs, reaching up to press a chaste kiss to Steve’s jawline, cradled in Steve’s big arms. Steve doesn’t need to respond, he just holds Tony tighter to him. 

They’re silent then, tucked together. Steve’s ass presses against what is arguably the most important desk in North America. They watch a small crew of gardeners trim a sparse grouping of neat topiaires in the impending dusk light, and if Steve really listens he can hear the Secret Service agents stationed just outside the office whispering Steve and Tony’s freshly appointed code names into their walkies. If he shuts it all off, focuses on the gentle way Tony exists around him in that moment, Steve almost feels normal. 

Tony’s the only person in the world who can make Steve feel like he’s more normal than the leader of the free world. It’s a wonderful feeling. 

“You could still move in, y’know,” Steve murmurs into Tony’s hair, his lips to his partner’s scalp, “I’ve got plenty of space up in the East wing. You can be my first gentleman.”

Tony laughs, light and real and soft, and he rocks gently back and forth with Steve’s arms wrapped around him, “Oh, come on, Baby. You know I’d cause you more trouble than good if I did that.”

They both know what he’s talking about. He’s talking about the homophobic, “outside-of-wedlock” cursing, naysaying assholes that decorate social media with their threats and accusations. To these people, Steve lives an unlawful life that makes him unfit to be president. To most, though, it makes Steve a real person who just wants to love. They usually ignore those people. 

Instead, Tony cracks a smile, “I mean, c’mon, babe. Knowing I’m up in the east wing waiting for you would drive you crazy. You’d never get a thing done down here.”

Steve huffs out a silent laugh against Tony’s temple. 

Tony continues, “Plus, anyway, there’s the tiny detail of me having a company to run. And where would we put all my stuff if I moved in? I don’t think you understand quite how much stuff I own. But that’s beside the point.”

Steve presses another kiss to Tony’s temple. He never wants him to leave. 

“Promise to come by every so often then? Please.”

Tony wiggles around in Steve’s arms so they’re finally facing one another, noses practically touching, each breath mingling with another, “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. President.”

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up being really fun but also wasn’t what I promised myself when I started do i... write a sequel... where they’re causing trouble and kicking ass in the White House... hmmmmm
> 
> either way I’m so proud of this fic!!! It’s the longest completed fic that I’ve ever written and i wrote it in a much shorter amount of time than I normally write anything wow
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at dammit-stark if you wanna talk stevetony goods or about any other fictional idiots really pls


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